


Day 24 and 25: Secret Injury. Humiliation.

by tbazzsnow (Artescapri)



Series: Whumptober 2019 [11]
Category: Carry On Series - Rainbow Rowell
Genre: Fluff and Hurt/Comfort, Humiliation, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Observations, Secret Injury, Simon knows a fair bit about injuries, Whumptober 2019, a bit of hurt a lot of comfort, after Baz returns to Watford 8th year, after the numpty kidnapping, doing things the Normal way, getting closer, mentions of Agatha Penny Niall and Dev
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-17
Updated: 2019-11-17
Packaged: 2021-01-31 15:00:22
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,980
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21448096
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Artescapri/pseuds/tbazzsnow
Summary: Baz is back at Watford after his two month disappearance. He's not quite back to his usual self, doing his best to hide the damage his time with the numpties inflicted on him.  Simon knows he's injured and he's determined to do something about it. A bit of hurt but a lot more comfort.
Relationships: Tyrannus Basilton "Baz" Pitch/Simon Snow
Series: Whumptober 2019 [11]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1541554
Comments: 14
Kudos: 240





	Day 24 and 25: Secret Injury. Humiliation.

## Whumptober Day 24 and 25

Day 24:** Secret Injury**

Day 25: **Humiliation**

* * *

**Baz**

It’s not that bad. I keep telling myself that. It’s better than it was a few weeks ago.

It is unnerving though. I can’t remember the last time I had an injury that took longer than a day or two to heal.

My nose, I suppose, the time Snow broke it.

I had to physically restrain Fiona from having words with the infirmary staff about how it was set.

_“You look like shit, Basil. For Merlin’s sake, your nose is _crooked_.”_

_“It’s fine. It’s better than it was.”_

_“Bloody hell. You look like a Roman statue. Not a good one. One of those awful hyper-realistic nightmares from the decline and fall. When they were celebrating bloody gladiators and pugilists. Fucking Simon Snow. Do you have a cauliflower ear now too, thanks to the Mage’s brat?”_

_I had to swat her hand away from me, before she could sweep my hair up to look. _

_“Don’t touch me, Fiona, I swear to Merlin.”_

_She had snorted. “Fine, I won’t mess about with your artfully styled locks, you vain prat.”_

_She’d pulled her wand out and pointed it at my face. I’d swatted that away too. “I told you no, for Crowley’s sake! You’re not a healer. Get that bloody thing out of my face. You’ll ruin my complexion.”_

_“That horse is out of the barn, boyo.” She’d leaned closer, up on her tiptoes to survey the damage. “Maybe it will look a bit better when the swelling’s down.” She’d still looked dubious._

It did look better, once the swelling resolved. Not back to the aristocratic profile I’d been born with, but somehow still attractively rugged. If Wellbelove’s covert looks were any indication. And she wasn’t the only one looking.

I’m used to the appearance of it now. It’s a permanent reminder of Snow. Of how I can get a rise out of him, even if it’s always one of anger.

It’s the only way I’ll ever get his hands on me, I suppose. Not that it will ever happen again.

We’ve not scrapped since he fell down the stairs. I didn’t push him, no matter how much he insists that I did. It was unfortunate circumstance. Poor foot placement by Snow and a bit more force than I usually use with him.

I’ve regretted it ever since, despite what I said to Fiona.

I’ll never forget the sight of him, tumbling down the stairs, each thump on the stone steps reverberating in my chest. The way he stayed so still when he hit the bottom. I was about to rush down to him when he groaned and sat up, shooting me a glare so full of hate it froze me in my tracks.

I could have lost him that day. I could have lost him so many times—the chimera, Fiona’s fucking voice recorder, that fall.

Each time the Mage sent him on one of his bloody missions.

It’s been a long day and my left leg is dragging. Another full day of class pushed me to my limit today. I’d done nothing but lie about at home. Lie about and eat. And read.  
  
And think about Snow.

I’d dreamt about his face so many times when I was with the numpties. Traced every mole. Counted every freckle. Gazed into the blue of his eyes the way I never allow myself to when I’m actually with him.

I have to make myself pull my eyes away from him now. I find myself staring in class, drinking in the sight of him. I was as starved for Snow as I was for sustenance.

Terrified at the thought that I might never see him again.

Fuck, I’m so weak.

In every sense. Weak for him, an absolute wreck physically, more behind in my classwork than I expected.

I can’t get warm. I can’t get full.

I can’t stop _fucking limping_.

The room is empty when I finally drag myself in. Snow, of course, has left the fucking window open. He’s a menace.

I slam it shut, making the hinge squeak. Bloody nuisance.

It’s so cold in here.

I don’t typically shower at night but I don’t care right now. I’m freezing, I’m sore, I’m fucking spent. The thought of dragging myself to dinner and then to the Catacombs completely wrecks me.

I came back too soon. I’ll never admit it to anyone, but Fiona and my father were right, blast them both.

I turn the water temperature up as high as I can stand it, feeling the heat wash over me, sink into my skin, slowly thaw the chill that’s settled in my bones. I rest my head against the tile, letting the wall hold me up.

I can’t do it myself anymore.

I’m so fucking tired.

It’s an effort to wash my hair.

I don’t know how long I stay in there. Long enough for the water to start to cool down. I wrap myself in towels and sit myself down on the toilet while I dry my hair.

Fuck.

I didn’t bring a change of clothes in with me. I stare at my school uniform, hanging on the hook. I don’t want to put it back on. Everything about today feels grimy, worn out.

Fuck it all.

Snow’s probably at the library, with Bunce. I can get a change of clothes quickly, before he gets back.

I’ll try to get my classwork done before I head to dinner. I’d skip the Catacombs completely if I could. But I don’t dare.

Not when I still feel like this. I need every drop of blood I can get.

I wrap the towel around my waist and peek out into the room. No Snow.

Good.

My luck runs out, of course, because why would anything go my way today?

I spend too long sorting through my shirts, everything taking far too much effort, so of course I’m still standing in front of my wardrobe, bare-chested, clad only in a towel, when the door to our room suddenly thuds open and Snow charges in.

He comes to a dead stop at the sight of me, mouth hanging wide open (mouth breather).

He splutters something incoherent.

I raise an eyebrow at him and curl my lip. I’m mortified to be caught out like this but I’m not going to let Snow have the upper hand. Thank magic I haven’t fed yet. I can feel my cheeks getting warm, even now. I’d be full-on blushing if I’d had my fill of rats.

“Shut the door, Snow. You’re letting in a draft.”

He slams the door, averting his gaze from me as he stomps to his bed and drops his bookbag on the floor.

“You shower in the mornings.”

“Yes, Snow, I’m quite aware.”

“So what’re you doing?”

I give him a withering glare. “Getting dressed, you moron. What does it look like I’m doing?”

He squirms, hand rubbing at his neck, eyes darting in my direction and then back to the floor. “But you don’t shower at night.”

I roll my eyes. “Fucking hell, Snow. _I’m aware. _I felt like showering. Do I need your permission to use the en suite now? Just because I’ve been gone doesn’t mean you get to make all the rules.”

He loosens his tie and swallows and it’s a whole scene. I can’t look away. I don’t know why I’m still standing here. I should just grab my things and slam myself away in the en suite until he leaves or I spontaneously combust.

“They’re your rules, you know.”

Crowley save me from this idiot. “Yes, Snow, I know that. I made an exception tonight, for a bloody good reason. Now can you get out of my way? I need to get dressed.” He’s somehow moved to stand between me and my escape route now. Bloody hell.

He tilts his head to the side, exposing more of his neck and I have to look away. “You used up all the hot water, didn’t you?”

I snort. Trust Snow to come up with something ridiculous like that, while looking like a delectable, disheveled snack. Not just the kind I’d like to eat.

“I most certainly did not,” I lie. “Now get out of my way, Snow. It’s freezing in here, no thanks to you leaving the window open _again_, and I’d like to get dressed before dinner.”

His eyes roam down my body and it’s simultaneously an unequivocally embarrassing experience and also undeniably hot.

“Move.” I’m practically snarling now. I have to get away from him before I do something stupid. Bite him or kiss him, I don’t know which. It’s like fucking fifth year all over again.

He moves, thank magic, and I lift my head high as I storm into the blessed solitude of the en suite.

It’s a fairly poor attempt at storming, seeing as I’m limping as I go, but I don’t look back and I slam the door for emphasis.

I end up slumped against it. Fuck. Snow will be my undoing. I’ve said it for years but the truth of it is indisputable.  
  
I’ve missed him so fucking much.

There’s only one solution. I can’t let myself be around him. It’ll have to be like last year, when I avoided him like the plague.

I need to be out of the room before he gets up in the morning (too bloody early), do all my studying in the library, only risk coming back here late at night, after he’s asleep. 

So much for getting any rest.

I pull my clothes on, check my hair, rearrange my bottles and hair brushes in an effort to waste my time in here so I don’t have to go out and face Snow again. Maybe he’ll just leave for dinner.

“Oi, Baz!”

_Fuck_.

“What?”

“You going to be in there all night? I need to take a piss, yeah?”

I close my eyes and count to ten before I open the door. I saunter out, slow and deliberate.

Snow’s standing there with his arms crossed and a smirk on his face.

“Go on, then,” I say, gesturing at the bathroom door.

He shakes his head, his grin only getting bigger. “I’m fine.”

“Didn’t you just shout me out of there?”  
  
He nods, still grinning.

I toss my head and stride over to my bed. I can’t just leave—I don’t have my socks or shoes on.

He follows me, the nightmare.

“Snow, stay on your side of the room. You may have picked up some bad habits while I was gone, but I’m back now and the rules are in full force.”

The glorious menace _sits on my bed_.

“Get away, Snow.”

He shrugs. “Anathema,” he says, casually leaning back on his hands as he studies me.

I am tying my shoe so furiously I get the laces knotted. Why do I insist on doing this without magic? I pick at the knot, mostly so I don’t have to look at Snow.

“Come on, Baz.”

I ignore him.

“I know your ankle is hurting. That’s why you took a hot shower, isn’t it?”

I keep fiddling with my shoe.

“Baz. Come on. I’ve been injured enough times to know what it’s like.”

I’m tempted to say something cutting but I can’t. He’s right. He has been injured—more times than I can count. He’s never made much of a fuss about it. A few groans here and there, nasty stained bandages in the bin, that infernal way he cracks his back when it aches.

“I’m fine, Snow.” It comes out softer than I intend.

The muppet moves closer to me.

“You’re not. You’re still limping.” Snow leans forward now, elbows resting on his thighs, hands clasped together between his legs. He’s looking right at me. I can feel his gaze even though my head’s still down. “I won’t ask what happened again. I know you don’t want to talk about it.”

My hair is hanging forward, damp from my shower. It screens me from Snow but I can still see him when I slide my eyes in his direction.

He takes a big breath.

His face is flushed.

I’m bent forward too, ostensibly tying my shoe, but I’ve let both feet drop to the floor, my hands clutching my knees. My left foot is still bare.

Snow points at my bare foot. “Can I take a look?”

_Crowley. _I may as well set myself on fire. My mouth is dry. I open and close it once or twice before I can get a word out. “Look at what?”

Snow points again. “Your ankle. You’ve fucked it up.”

“It’s not fucked up.” I’d meant to snarl but it just comes out petulant. Fucking hell. I’m pathetic.

Snow tilts his head. “Baz. You’ve been limping on it since you got back. Something’s not right.” His brow furrows. “I know I’m not an expert or anything, but I’ve had my fair share of sprains. Would you let me take a look?”

I’ve never been scared of Snow. Never been afraid to look him in the eye. Never been anxious about getting in his space, having him come at me.

I’m bloody terrified right now.

“It’s fine, Snow. Really. It’ll sort itself soon enough.” I root around the floor for my other sock.

Snow snatches it up before I reach it.

“Give me my sock, Snow.” I try for a menacing growl. I just sound whiny and wretched. 

He shakes his head, thumping git that he is. 

“My sock, Snow.” There, that was a bit surlier.

“No. I’ll not give it back until you let me take a look at that ankle, Baz.”

I roll my eyes and huff at him. “I have other socks, you know.”

“Would you stop being a stuck-up prat for one minute, Baz? Just one minute. And let me help?”

I let my hands drop to my sides. “What do you want, Snow?”

He holds out his hands. “Give me your ankle.”

I goggle at him. He juts his chin at me. “Come on, swing it up here and let me take a look.”

“It’s been weeks. It’s fine. Really. My father and my aunt cast a few **_“_**_get well soons**” **_on it. It’s on the mend.” I’m babbling. Literally babbling. And I’ve just admitted I’ve got an injury. Will the humiliations never cease?

Snow frowns and holds his hands out at me again. “That makes it worse, you know, not better, that it’s been so long. I’ve never seen you limp like this, not even after that hit you took fifth year, thanks to that hulking tosser from St. Martin’s.”

I’d sprained my ankle in the second to last game of the season. St. Martin’s always has it out for us and that particular berk has hated me since third year. I didn’t think Snow would remember.

I blink and he smiles. It’s one of those smiles I’ve never seen directed at me before. It’s the one he saves for Bunce, for Wellbelove, for the people who smile and wave at him as he walks by them on the way to class.

It’s never been for me.

I don’t know what I’m doing.

What I’m doing is scooting until my back is pressed against the headboard of my bed, my left foot resting on the duvet between us. Snow looks at me and nods his head at my leg before bringing his hands to hover in the air above my foot. I nod back. I’ve got my hands fisted at my sides, clenching bits of duvet fabric as I try to hold myself very still.  
  
Snow’s hands are warm. He cups my ankle in his hand and runs his finger along the tendon in back, up the sides of my foot, over the top, and then along my ankle bones.

His touch is gentler than I’d expected, the calluses on his sword hand lightly running over my skin. His first pass is light, tentative.

His second pass is firmer, more probing, pressing at joints and ligaments, pushing at the bones. I wince as he runs his thumb along the outside of my ankle. He does it again, harder. 

“Stop that, Snow.” I try to pull away but he’s got a secure hold on me.

“Give me a minute, Baz.”

“I already gave you a minute.” Blast it. I sound breathless. Fucking hell.

His touch softens again and he looks contrite. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to hurt you.”

Oh thank Crowley. He thinks I sound like that because of the pain.

His eyes meet mine again. “Can I push there one more time? Just to check something?”

I don’t trust my voice so I just nod. He prods the bone, on the outside of my leg, just above the ankle. I wince. The swelling’s never quite gone down there.

He’s running his fingers up and down the bone now, rubbing softly. It feels ridiculously soothing. My head drops back against the wall behind me.

“I think you broke it.”

That snaps me out of my contentment. “What?”

“I think you broke it. Whenever you injured it. Weeks ago, likely, based on the looks of it and the fact that you’re able to walk on it.” Snow frowns down at my ankle, still cradled in his hands. “How long, Baz?”

The words escape my lips without my permission. “Around eight weeks.”

Snow’s head snaps up. He’s got a crease between his eyebrows. “Eight weeks? Fucking hell, Baz, you should be better by now.” He’s running his fingers along the bone, pressing in a bit harder again. “Even I’d be healed in eight weeks. Even without magic.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

He bites his lip and shrugs. “It’s just … ah … you usually heal from things quickly.” He clears his throat. “Quicker than most.”

I know what he’s getting at and I’m not rising to the bait.

I pull my foot away from his hands and turn away from him. “I don’t know why you’d think that. I just don’t bother with the infirmary much.” Fuck. That basically proves his point. I am such an idiot.

I don’t bother with the infirmary for good reason. I do heal quickly, far too quickly, thanks to _my condition._

It’s best to not let others delve into that fact. I do my best to minimize it when I do get hurt and then no one has to get too involved.

My broken nose was an aberration. I had no choice but to go to the infirmary. Ms. Possibelf practically dragged me there. I’m almost glad it healed the way it did—it made the whole recovery less suspicious with it being malaligned.

Snow silently hands me my sock. I concentrate on putting it on and ignore the fact that I already miss the warm pressure of his hands on me. 

He puts his hand on my forearm, stopping me before I get my shoe on. “Can I try something?”

“Haven’t you done enough, Snow? You’ve already poked and prodded me, diagnosed me with a broken ankle. I’d say that’s more than enough for tonight.”

His hand stays on my shirtsleeve, fingers transferring his warmth to my arm. “I mean, I have an idea. Something that might make you feel better?” He looks less confident than he did a moment ago. Almost tentative.

“Do not cast a healing spell on me, Snow. I’m not joking.”

He rolls his eyes at me. “It’s not a healing spell, you wanker.” He stands up and goes over to his wardrobe, rummaging around for a minute before turning around, brandishing what looks like a wrap and some sort of ankle brace. “I got this, last summer, when I was in care. Messed about playing rugby with some blokes from the home and sprained my ankle. No magic, so I had to get it treated the Normal way.”

Snow sits down next to me again and motions at my ankle. I scowl at him but I bring it up onto the bed. It’s mortifying how desperate I am for him to touch it again.

He puts the wrap and brace down on the bed and points at my wand, resting on the nightstand. “Do a quick cleaning spell, would you, Baz? It’s not as if they’re dirty but I’m sure there’s a bit of sweat on them from me last summer.”

I’ve never wanted to refuse to use magic this strongly before. The thought of wearing Snow’s sweat-stained wrap and brace is wildly appealing.

I know. I’m disturbed. Ask anyone.

I make a show of being disgusted (I’m not) and cast a quick and regretful **_“sanitized for your protection” _**on the items Snow’s placed on my bed.

He makes quick work of wrapping my ankle, not too snug, not too loose. It’s obvious he’s well versed in this. Snow slides the brace on next, after loosening the laces, then he adjusts the fit before he tightens it up again and ties it.

“Your shoe might feel a bit tight,” he cautions, bending down to grab my shoe for me.

It does feel snug but not overly so. I stand up and take a few steps back and forth across the room. It feels quite a bit better I’m surprised to admit.

Snow’s beaming at me from my bed. “Your limp’s better.” He looks inordinately pleased with himself.

“It does feel a bit less sore.” The admission comes haltingly but I can’t help smiling back at him. I can’t even muster a smirk. I must look like a fool.

“You ready to go to dinner, then?”

This is new. Snow’s never walked down to a meal with me, not voluntarily. We may have left at the same time but we’ve never gone _together._

Not deliberately.

Not taking the stairs together like we do now, matching our strides. Not walking across the courtyard shoulder to shoulder. Not striding into the dining hall side by side.

I catch Dev’s puzzled look, Bunce’s intense glare, Wellbelove’s surprise.

I stop and Snow stops with me. I turn and put my hand out towards him, remembering another day, his hand held out to me that time. My cheeks heat up as I recall my long-ago response. He’d have every right to do the same to me right now.  
  
I swallow and meet his eyes. “Thank you, Snow. It was very kind of you.”

His grin is brighter than a thousand suns. A flare of heat runs through me at the sight. _This can only end in flames, _I think to myself.

Snow’s hand is warm when it grips mine, the touch of his skin on my palm sending a buzzing sensation all the way up my arm. He squeezes, hand lingering for just an instant longer than I expect. “Glad I could help, Baz.”

It takes everything I have to pull my hand away, to turn to the far side of the hall, tear my gaze away from Snow’s brilliant blue eyes. I can still feel the heat of his hand on my skin.

“What the bloody hell was that, Baz?” Niall’s eyes are wide as I take my seat across from him. Dev looks rattled.

“All part of the plan, gentlemen, all part of the plan.”

There is no plan.

I have no fucking plan.

Unless it’s to somehow get Snow to examine my ankle again. For scientific purposes, of course. To assess my progress.

Fuck, who am I kidding?

I’m ready to stumble over a flagstone on the way back to our room, step in a hole on the lawn, trip up the stairs of Mummers, just to get him to take another look.

I can see him watching me from across the hall. He’s still smiling.

So am I.

Fuck.


End file.
